


Sleepwalking

by Basingstoke



Category: Fight Club (1999), The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-01
Updated: 2000-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:44:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke





	Sleepwalking

He haunted the edges of the crowd, feeling the strange, frantic energy, listening to the rules. 

"The first rule of fight club, is you don't talk about fight club." 

 

Fifty keyed-up men, their attention focused on the man in the middle.

"The second rule of fight club, is you DON'T talk about fight club." 

Twitching lips told him more than a few had broken that rule.

"The third rule of fight club is, when someone says 'stop' or goes limp, the fight is over."

Fists were wrapped, and he worked his way into the crowd.

"Fourth rule is, only two guys to a fight."

Eyes met at this rule.  Men paired off.

"Fifth rule, one fight at a time."

He caught a glimpse in the man in the center before the crowd blocked his eyeline again.

"Sixth rule, no shirts, no shoes."

Clothes kicked off, increasing the smell of nervous sweat. 

"Seventh rule, fights go on as long as they have to."

He sipped into the front and saw the leader, pared down skinny and covered with the dead peacock colors of old bruises, reciting the rules. 

"And the eighth and final rule--if this is your first night at fight club, you HAVE to fight."

The punched-out eyes of the leader met his, and Krycek knew who he was fighting. 

* * *

Krycek felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see the leader.  He crooked his fingers, beckoning Krycek to the center of the room.

Eyes shifted hot upon them as they stepped into the informal ring. His opponent leaned over to untie his shoes, and Krycek followed his lead. He unzipped the side of the combat boots, and pulled off the thick socks, standing them against a support pillar.

He shrugged off his leather jacket.  The other man was now shirtless, staring at him intently.  The man's ribs were colored as his face and dotted with scabs and scars. 

The mood shifted when Krycek pulled the thick sweater over his head. He unstrapped the prosthetic arm as well, eyeing the others.  A few men scowled with hostility or sick pity, but most showed intense curiosity. 

His opponent was smiling.  He bounced lightly from one foot to the other, and then rushed Krycek, slamming him back into the pillar. He drove his fists into Krycek's ribs--hard, but not as hard as he could.

Krycek kicked the man's feet out and rolled with him onto the floor. He dropped a knee on the man's arm to pin him for a moment and threw a hard punch into his stomach. Much harder than the man had given him.

And the man could have broken the hold easily, but instead he flopped under Krycek's blows like a fish, just taking them.  Krycek compared the state of his knuckles to the bruises on his chest and realized--the man played to lose. 

Krycek knew that game.  He played the same one with Mulder, taking the blows like caresses because there was nothing more to feel.  The man's face was blank, he gave only enough struggle to keep the fight going.

So Krycek dropped his other knee across the man's cock and pounded him to orgasm.

* * *

After the club dispersed, Krycek walked around the bar, following his instinct.

In the back of the bar, the leader leaned against the wall, arms folded around his chest, lips moving as he whispered to himself. 

"Those ribs will be all right if you wrap them," Krycek said.

His head raised.  "I know."

Krycek quirked his eyebrows and pulled out a pack of clove cigarettes. He lit one, rolling the smoke around his mouth but not inhaling. 

"How can you smoke that shit?" the man demanded.

"They don't remind me of someone I know."

The man stared at him, eyes narrowed, before turning away and muttering again.  Krycek lounged against the wall, tonguing the rich smoke. 

The man's aspect suddenly changed, showing confidence rather than withdrawal; he straightened up and pushed away from the wall.  He walked toward Krycek, hips rolling, limbs loose, and took the cigarette from him. 

He took a short, round puff, releasing the smoke in a cohesive ball between them.  The smoke drifted slowly up and out, covering both their faces with its sweet veil.  There was a flare of red as the man drew long and hard on the cigarette, twisting the smoke back toward his nose.

Scabbed hands dropped the cigarette, and then rested on the brick on either side of his head. 

"Are you coming back next week?"  the man asked, leaking smoke with his words like a demon.

"No."

"I didn't think so.  Too bad.  Jack kind of likes you." The man leaned in as if for a kiss--but instead, sucked on Krycek's lower lip, catching it between his teeth.  He rolled Krycek's lip between his teeth, biting down on the tender red inside.

Bit down hard, and harder, until blood flowed into Krycek's mouth; and he could have killed the man half a dozen times, but he was enjoying himself. And it was only fair that the man should reciprocate, after the way Krycek worked him over. 

When the man released him and drew back, there was blood on his mouth. He licked it away.  "Bye."

And he walked off, hips rolling, stalking the streetlight.

Krycek ground out the dropped cigarette, and left the alley in the other direction.

end.


End file.
